


come into my castle

by honey_wheeler



Series: home is just another word for you [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Group Marriage, Hand Jobs, Multi, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of late she has felt such urges towards Jeyne, such curiosities and desires. She has kissed Jeyne before, touched her in passion before, but always Jon was with them, <i>between</i> them. Now Sansa wonders what it would be to touch Jeyne alone, with Jon only as witness, a bystander rather than what binds them together. She wonders and it makes her ache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come into my castle

**Author's Note:**

> Continuation of **[we keep you in our bones](http://archiveofourown.org/works/370459)** and **[shine a light](http://archiveofourown.org/works/386506)**

He’s late.

It’s Jon’s nameday – only his second since Sansa came home to Winterfell, his first falling so near her arrival that she does not remember it – and he’s late, some business with the merchants from Wintertown occupying him through supper and well into evening, long past the time Jon would have retired to join Jeyne and Sansa in their chambers. They’d not anticipated that when they planned their gift for him, the two of them waiting for him, both as bare as they’d been on their own first namedays but for the sashes they’d tied in large bows around their waists. 

“I feel so silly,” Sansa laughs, flopping into the large armchair by the fire with little grace. 

“You don’t look silly,” Jeyne tells her. “You look good enough to eat.” Sansa flushes at the compliment, a small, pleased smile tugging at her lips. It is still strange to be looked on with such warm appreciation. She’d known appreciation before, but it had always been more possessive than warm, more dangerous than pleasing. Jeyne fiddles with the sash around her waist, far more comfortable with her nudity than Sansa feels. But then she has ample reason to be comfortable. Sansa has known a great many beautiful women – Cersei Lannister, Margaery Tyrell, her own lady mother – but there is something appealing in Jeyne that goes beyond anything that could be called mere beauty. And without her clothes, she is more appealing still. Sansa had suggested the bows, thinking they would seem festive and playful. She hadn’t expected that they would make her wish to unwrap Jeyne herself. With her teeth.

“Oh, of all the nights,” Jeyne says with a sigh, stretching her arms above her head and twirling in a languid circle. Unbidden, Sansa finds herself staring at Jeyne’s naked form until she remembers herself, blushing as she looks down at her lap only to blush all the more when she remembers that nothing _covers_ her lap. Of late she has felt such urges towards Jeyne, such curiosities and desires. She has kissed Jeyne before, touched her in passion before, but always Jon was with them, _between_ them. Now Sansa wonders what it would be to touch Jeyne alone, with Jon only as witness, a bystander rather than what binds them together. She wonders and it makes her ache.

“Gods, but this is boring,” Jeyne says. “We should have married a crofter.”

Sansa smiles, imagining Jon tilling a field or picking a harvest. The idea is not unappealing. “Some days I think he would prefer such a life,” she says. It’s only then that she realizes Jeyne had spoken as if Sansa is Jon’s wife as well, as if the three of them are bonded in true marriage, rather than only the daily practice of it. It’s a heady thought. A painfully sweet one. Sansa would truly belong to them, in more than just her heart.

“You’ve a curious expression on your face.” Jeyne’s words snap Sansa back to herself, her cheeks flushing at her own thoughts.

“Just bored,” she lies. Lying is something she rarely has to do anymore. It’s a skill she does not regret losing the aptitude for.

“Surely there’s something we could do to pass the time,” Jeyne says. She taps her finger at her chin, her lips pursed into a thoughtful pout, her eyes wide in consideration. 

“We could do what Jeyne and I always did when we were bored. That is, my other Jeyne. My first Jeyne.” A pang pierces Sansa’s heart at the remembrance of sweet Jeyne Poole, whose life had made such terrible turns since she was taken from Sansa so many years ago. As she always does, Sansa wonders what life Jeyne has made for herself now, where she’s gone and what she’s done. She’s tried to find her but Jeyne had disappeared after Winterfell was taken back by Stannis Baratheon and all of Sansa’s searching has been for naught, something that brings her nearly as much pain and guilt as the fate that befell Jeyne Poole in King’s Landing.

Jeyne makes a soft sound of sympathy, crowding herself into the chair beside Sansa and pressing a soothing kiss to her forehead. “What was it you would do?” she asks.

For a moment, Sansa can’t speak, words seeming foreign and impossible. Jeyne’s skin is warm and soft against hers, from shoulder to knee, the curves of Jeyne’s body frankly round where Sansa’s are shallow, her skin freckled and dusky where Sansa’s is paler than cream. She smells of spice and something sweet, something Sansa can’t quite name. It’s enough to have Sansa’s blood hammering in her throat.

“Sansa?” Jeyne prompts.

“Oh,” Sansa says. “Oh, we played Come Into My Castle.” She shrugs at the childishness of it. She’d meant it only as a bit of silliness at first, but Jeyne’s body against hers has her flustered, and the suggestion sounds more serious than she’d intended. She’s not sure Jeyne’s ever played the game, or even heard of it. Perhaps those in the Westerlands had other games as children. But the wicked gleam in Jeyne’s eyes is not childish, nor is her chuckle as she leans close to Sansa, her fingers skimming up the seam of Sansa’s thighs where they’re pressed primly together.

“That sounds _lovely_ ,” she says, her chin dipped low, her eyes big and round and warm as she looks at Sansa through dark lashes. “Though perhaps inappropriate for children.” Her lips quirk into a wry grin. Sansa smiles back, though she’s having trouble breathing for the nervous anticipation that’s coiling in her belly and making her limbs feel shaky and weak.

“I think the version you’re imagining is decidedly for adults,” she says, her voice trembling to match the rest of her.

“Oh, I think that’s the version we should play, though,” Jeyne says, her fingers traveling down towards Sansa’s knees and back up again, this time skimming over the swirling pattern of hair at the junction of Sansa’s thighs in a touch that Sansa can feel in the back of her throat. “Don’t you?”

“ _Oh._ Oh yes. Yes, I think so.” Then Sansa starts guiltily, remembering Jon at his lordly tasks, Jon whose nameday they had planned so lovingly. “Oh, but Jon. Should we not wait for Jon?”

“I think Jon will forgive us for occupying ourselves in his absence,” Jeyne assures her. Her fingers move again, and Sansa cannot help but part her knees slightly, so that she feels Jeyne’s knuckles on the inside of her thigh where her skin is so sensitive that Jeyne’s touch feels like a brand. She closes her eyes, tilting her forehead to Jeyne’s and listening to her own ragged breathing, ragged even though Jeyne has barely touched her. 

“Sansa,” Jeyne murmurs. “May I come into your castle?”

“Oh yes,” Sansa breaths. “Yes, please.” 

She expects to feel Jeyne’s fingers move again, expects them to delve more deeply the way Jon has done to each of them more times than Sansa could count. She does not expect Jeyne’s kiss, but her lips are against Sansa’s, her breath flowing sweet into Sansa’s own mouth. The kiss feels different from those they’ve shared before. Perhaps because Jon had always been between them, or perhaps Sansa had already been restless and squirming and ready by the time Jeyne kissed her before. Whatever the reason, the touch of Jeyne’s tongue on Sansa’s lips shoots straight to her belly, and then beyond, so that Sansa squeezes her thighs together in an instinctive response to the sudden, heavy throb between them, catching Jeyne’s fingers there. Jeyne seems to feel it as well; she utters the sweetest sigh before tilting her head and taking Sansa’s mouth more fully, her fingers fluttering where they’re trapped against Sansa’s most sensitive flesh.

“Well then,” Jeyne says when they pull apart, her lips smudged and soft looking. Feeling uncharacteristically bold, Sansa lifts her hand and cuffs it at Jeyne’s nape, the hair beneath her fingers soft and curling.

“Jon should be late more often,” she says. Jeyne’s delighted laughter seems permission to kiss her again, deeper this time, her tongue stealing into Jeyne’s mouth in a slow dance.

They kiss for what seems like ages, Jeyne’s fingers at first merely tucked between Sansa’s thigh, pushing against her with delicious pressure. Sansa wants more, wants Jeyne to touch her the way Jon’s done before. Then it occurs to her that her knees are held as tightly together as always, and she breaks away from Jeyne with a sheepish start.

“Oh,” she says, feeling her cheeks heat and color at her realization.

“Hm?”

“Your hand,” Sansa says. “If I…” Suddenly her throat feels full, the words for everything she wants crowded at the back of her tongue. Sansa ducks her head, only to _see_ Jeyne’s hand there between her legs. It’s enough to make her dizzy with a strange combination of longing and shyness and a thrill at her wantonness. 

“If you?” Jeyne prompts.

“If I opened my legs, you could… could…” Realization dawns on Jeyne’s face and she smiles, lazy and smug, like a cat in a patch of sun.

“Yes,” she says. “I could indeed.”

Swallowing against the heat that jumps in her belly, Sansa eases her legs apart. She’s reward by Jeyne’s fingers sliding over her, making a leisurely journey over all of her before finding that one particular spot and beginning to circle as her mouth finds Sansa’s once more.

Much to her embarrassment, Sansa cannot keep from squeaking into Jeyne’s mouth, Jeyne’s fingers wringing sound after sound from Sansa’s throat. Pleasure throbs through her, hot and sweet, pulsing from every part of her body to gather beneath Jeyne’s hand. It feels so good, Sansa could cry. She could sob from it for just how good it feels.

“Perhaps you’d like to come into my castle as well?” Jeyne suggests, her cheeks dimpling charmingly when she pulls away to smile at Sansa in invitation. As if to punctuate her suggestion, she delves her fingers into Sansa with soft, wet sounds, sounds that are so unspeakably wonderful and obscene that Sansa can barely contain herself. With an eagerness that surprises her, she draws her hand down Jeyne’s belly, somehow surprised at the slight coarseness of the hair that meets her touch. Jeyne is always so soft. It’s unexpected to feel any part of her that isn’t. But then Sansa slips her fingers lower, and oh, Jeyne is soft there, soft and warm and wet, so wet that Sansa feels herself grow only wetter in response. Carefully, she explores with curious fingers, mimicking the movement of Jeyne’s hand between Sansa’s own legs.

“Lovely,” Jeyne breathes, lifting her foot to the cushion between them and tucking it behind Sansa’s hip, so that she’s more open to Sansa’s touch. Not content with that, she pulls at Sansa’s leg that’s closest to her, tugging it so that it’s hooked over Jeyne’s other thigh. Now they’re both open to each other and they take advantage, each moving their fingers with greater urgency.

Sansa loses herself in exploration, in pure, hot feeling. It’s heady, almost powerful; she slides her fingers and Jeyne gasps, curls them inside and Jeyne tightens around her. A slow circle of her fingertips brings a sound that’s half laugh and half sigh. 

“Why have we not done this before?” Jeyne asks as she rocks her hips into Sansa’s touch, her voice shaky. Sansa has no answer; she’s wondering the same thing herself. So instead she drags her fingers, slick with Jeyne’s desire, over her more quickly, the urgency she feels throbbing between her own thighs transmitting itself into her touch between Jeyne’s. When Jeyne cries out and arches her spine, it affords Sansa the opportunity to take the peak of Jeyne breast in her mouth. Without hesitating, Sansa takes it, opening her lips in a wide circle to suck on Jeyne’s teat the way Jon’s often done to both of them. It’s only after she’s done it that a thrill of daring shoots through her, a sense of astonishment at this wanton creature she’s become. Sansa likes that wanton creature, she thinks, and by the way Jeyne shivers and cries out, it seems she likes it as well.

“Oh,” Jeyne gasps, writhingly shamelessly, her hips bucking. “Oh, oh, _oh_.” Sansa can feel the release pulsing through Jeyne’s body – it’s in the hammer of her heart at Sansa’s cheek, the slick heat that coats her hand, the flutter of Jeyne’s pleasure pulsing around Sansa’s fingers. Sansa revels in it, feeling something thick and hot swelling in her belly. She’s never made someone peak before, not like this. Usually Jon is making _her_ peak, holding himself back until he can follow, and Sansa loves the way he gives in to his desire for her, but this…this is different. Perhaps this is something she can do to Jon as well. The thought makes her pulse and flutter herself, imagining how she could dismantle him like this. Imagining how Jeyne could help.

“I fear I’ve left you behind,” Jeyne says lazily at Sansa’s ear, her body heavy and loose in the aftermath of her release, though her fingers still move between Sansa’s thighs, intense despite their slow pace.

“It’s all right,” Sansa says, kissing the spot just below Jeyne’s ear.

“Is it?” Jeyne persists. Before Sansa can answer, Jeyne speeds the pace of her fingers, until Sansa’s whole body tightens with need.

“Well,” she pants. “Perhaps not. But you might make it up to me.” 

Jeyne grins in satisfaction, her cheeks dimpling irresistibly. “Might I?”

“Yes. In bed.” Jeyne’s grin only deepens.

“A well-chosen location,” she says.

It is only after they’ve fallen into a light sleep twined about each other – Sansa having peaked twice, the last from straddling Jeyne’s thigh and rocking her hips madly – that Jon finally returns to their chambers. It’s the thump of his boots on the floor that rouses Sansa, though Jeyne merely murmurs and snuggles closer beside her, her breath warm and damp at Sansa’s throat as she sleeps.

“I fear we started without you,” Sansa says with no small amount of chagrin. Jon looks surprised, and for a moment Sansa fears he’ll be wroth with them, but then he smiles and beneath the fondness and amusement, there’s a heat that makes Sansa’s skin tingle.

“Had I known, I’d have made more haste. That is something I’d have liked to witness.” He sheds his clothing as he moves towards the bed, dropping each piece in a trail that leads from the door, something Sansa thinks Jeyne would chastise him for, if only she were awake. Sansa sits up to prop herself on one arm, watching him as she strips down to only in his breeches before sitting on the edge of the bed opposite Jeyne, his hand reaching across her to touch the scarlet sash that has somehow managed to stay about Sansa’s waist, though Jeyne lost hers somewhere before they moved to the bed.

“What’s this?” he asks, rubbing the cloth between forefinger and thumb. Sansa flushes, feeling a bit silly.

“For your nameday,” she explains sheepishly. “We were your gift.”

“Ah, I see.” He grins at her and tugs lightly at the tail of the bow, the sash pulling at her waist with the motion and kindling the heat in her belly that she’d thought was quenched with Jeyne. She remembers making Jeyne peak, remembers wondering if she could do the same for Jon. He’s so very handsome in the dim light of the fire, his skin burnished and smooth, but for the scars that decorate his chest and shoulders like a latticework. A sudden urge takes her to kiss each of those scars, to smooth each one with her tongue and taste every bit of his skin. Perhaps he reads something in her eyes, because his own eyes darken and the fondness on his face is replaced by need.

“It is still my nameday,” he points out, his voice deceptively casual.

“It is,” Sansa agrees, her whole body beginning to quiver.

“Perhaps we could wake Jeyne,” he suggests. As if woken by her name, Jeyne stretches between them, gliding her hand up Jon’s arm in a caress even as she twists to insinuate her thigh between Sansa’s.

“Perhaps Jeyne is awake and quite ready for whatever you two have planned.” Jon and Sansa both laugh together, Jon rolling his eyes in fond amusement. He runs his fingers to the end of the sash and draws the end over Jeyne’s bare stomach, in a drag that must be ticklish for how she inhales sharply and squirms at the feel of it.

“I’m quite put out that you both enjoyed my gift without me here to see,” he says, casually, thoughtfully. “And on my nameday!”

Sansa smiles, catching his meaning. “We could enjoy it again in the same manner,” she says, “so that you may play audience to it.” Jon appears to contemplate, tapping one long finger against his lips as if deliberating.

“I think that could serve nicely,” he says. Then he gives a sly grin. “For a start.” Sansa grins in return, feeling bold as she threads her hand through his hair and pulls him to her for a long, needy kiss.

“Happy nameday, my lord husband.” She does not notice her slip – he is not her husband, no matter that it feels he is – until he gifts her with a painfully happy smile before he ducks his head to accept Jeyne’s kiss, her own murmured well wishes on his nameday. But perhaps if Jeyne thinks it true, Jon does as well. Perhaps Sansa does truly belong to them. The thought makes her heart climb into her throat, her skin feeling tight, as if it could not contain her happiness. She wishes to kiss Jon again, to show him all that she feels, but he’s settling against the bedstead on Jeyne’s other side, legs crossed at the ankle and hands folded over his stomach, looking at them with something close to a smirk on his face.

“I’m ready and eager for my gift to be reenacted,” he says, wrinkling his nose in a gesture so boyish that Sansa can’t help but laugh.

“As am I,” Jeyne says, hitching her knee up to rub her thigh more firmly against Sansa. “And I can hardly wait to see what you two come up with for _my_ nameday.” They both laugh again at that, Jon’s deep chuckle laced under Sansa’s higher voice. She looks at Jon and lets all of her new thoughts show in her face, keeping his gaze as she walks her fingers up Jeyne’s thigh to tuck them between and rub over Jeyne’s sensitive flesh, still sticky from their earlier activity.

“I think Jon and I can come up with a few things,” she says lightly, and the only thing better than Jeyne’s sweet gasp is Jon’s intrigued groan that says he has as many ideas as she. Gods willing they'll have many namedays together to explore them all.


End file.
